


No Cruyff Turns

by Bellelaide



Series: ENT [3]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: D/s, England National Team, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 14:03:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16368995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellelaide/pseuds/Bellelaide
Summary: Jordan fucks up during the Spain game but it’s John who needs to be punished





	No Cruyff Turns

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little baby one that I wrote today cos it was a lazy Sunday and I felt like it!

John had received a yellow card during England’s Croatia game, and it had resulted in him being unable to play their following match against Spain. 

It was always frustrating when things like that happened but the ref’s decisions were final, and so John had decided to take an early flight home and use the time to relax before club football resumed. 

Jordan had whined when he’d relayed his plans, complaining that they could ‘see Spain together’. John had just looked at him pointedly and asked if he really thought they were going to go sightseeing over the next two days. Jordan agreed that he was right, but then commented that they could have sex in the room at the very least. 

Whilst John liked sex he didn’t particularly like doing it with his colleagues on either side of the walls and it wasn’t like they were desperate for time anymore. They didn’t need to grapple for moments to be alone these days. Staying in Spain when he was unable to play would only be frustrating. Jordan agreed reluctantly and within a few hours John was at home, in the bath, wearing a face mask. 

He stayed in the water until it turned lukewarm then climbed out, towelled himself off. He pulled on a pair of joggers from the clean laundry pile, and instantly knew they were Jordan’s because there was a pair of EarPods in the pocket. He sighed because they’d been through the washer and Jordan was incapable of checking the pockets on his trousers before he washed them, regularly ruining a load by washing tissues with it, washing and spoiling countless £10 notes, destroying more earphones than was normal. 

He dumped the EarPods on the bedside table and put on a t shirt, towelling off his hair and reaching for his phone. He answered a text from Kyle on his way downstairs and then drank a glass of milk in the kitchen, trying to decide whether to watch TV or go to bed. 

In the end sleep won. John slept on Jordan’s side of the bed and didn’t move once all night, sleeping right through to 11am the next day. He woke up and stretched, smiling happily. It sucked not to be with the team but it was amazing to have some time off, too - he wouldn’t ever complain about a long lie. 

John reached for his phone and saw a couple of texts from Jordan. 

JP: cant be fucked with this game today  
JP: shouldve got meself booked n all  
JP: you still sleeping? Jammy fucker  
JP: going to punch Dier in the face if he whinges about Del one more time  
JP: not being funny but Ross is actually built like a brick shit house isnt he 

John laughed and texted him back. 

JS: just woke up  
JS: leave Eric alone, you not whinging about me not being there? Shit boyfriend you  
JS: Ross would fling you about like a wet tracksuit 

He hopped out of bed and went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth. He was peeing when Jordan text him back: 

JP: kyles been talking about u more than I have hahaha  
JP: wish i was at home too 

JS: you’ll be back tomorrow  
JS: want me to pick you up at the airport? 

JP: yeah can do  
JP: flights in at 12:20 at Stanstead 

JS: got it  
JS: stop texting and go and work before you get in trouble 

Jordan did stop texting after that. John went for a run, managing four miles before he got bored and turned around. At home he took a shower, got dressed and made himself breakfast, which he ate whilst watching Loose Women. He texted around to see who was still in the city and not away for international break; and his choices were few - he eventually made plans with Aymeric to go to the pub to watch the England game later that evening. 

Whilst he waited for 7pm to roll around, John settled down in the living room and flicked through Netflix. He decided on To All The Boys I Loved Before, because Noah Centineo was a stud, and stretched out luxuriously on the couch. 

— 

John and Aymeric had tried to go incognito at the pub but it was hard in Manchester, where everyone knew who played for City and United from birth. They’d stepped into the place and approached the bar and before they knew it they were three rounds in with a group of middle aged City fans, all tipsy and lairy and having a grand old time. 

The thing about middle aged men was that they didn’t ask for selfies or photos, just wheedled on about final tickets and signed shirts and begged to meet Kevin De Bruyne. But, as always happened when they were a few drinks in, the conversations turned to old stories and funny tales and it was like being at home with your dad and his mates. John wasn’t complaining, had no desire to sit at a table with Aymeric alone and scrape for conversation, and so they drank happily and contentedly with the men. 

The game came onto the flat screens around the pub eventually and John and the men sang the national anthem animatedly with their hands over their hearts. John watched Jordan with his bottom lip between his teeth and a huge smile on his face, eyes crinkled with pride. 

“England’s number one!” One of the guys shouted as the cameras panned Jordan. 

John tilted his head to the side and said quietly “Yeah, he really is.” 

The game commenced, and John was watching out of the corner of his eye when he saw Dier clatter Sergio Ramos for no reason. He snorted into his beer and looked over at Aymeric, who looked confused. John took out his phone and sent Eric a text saying “fucking legend”. 

They all cheered uproariously when Sterling scored, and then when Rashford followed with another. England were 3-0 up and John could hardly believe it, getting progressively drunker as the game went on. Alcàcer scored after the first half, which was depressing, but still couldn’t dampen the buzz of the game. 

John and the men in the pub were in a huddle jumping up and down and chanting ENGERLAND, ENGERLAND when someone shouted “What on earth is Pickford doing?” 

John turned around to face the TV absently, expecting to see Jordan shouting at Chilwell or something, and double took when he saw England’s goal empty, Jordan faffing about outside the box, attempting to execute a Cruyff turn and failing miserably. 

Next thing Jordan and Rodrigo were manhandling each other for the ball. John’s mouth dropped open and he put a hand to his head, incredulous. Somehow, by some miracle, Jordan booted the ball away, but it was a clear foul - Rodrigo had to be awarded a penalty. Everyone was groaning and shouting and John knew that if he was there he’d rip Jordan a new arse hole; that they’d have one of their famous domestics on the pitch in front of everyone. 

Apparently the miracles were not done yet, though, because Rodrigo was only given a corner. Jordan, the lucky fucker, had avoided a disaster by the skin of his teeth, but John was irritated - Jordan could’ve blown the whole thing. He had to be smarter than that; had to think things through better. John’s good mood dissipated quickly. 

He put his drink down on the bar and signalled to Aymeric that he was ready to leave. They said their goodbyes, took the numbers of people that they’d promised to get tickets for, and called a taxi. Whilst they waited for their car the game finished, John saw on his phone - even after a last minute goal from Ramos, they’d done it - England had won. 

John composed a text to Kyle congratulating him and sent one to Sterling too. He didn’t know what to say to Jordan so he didn’t say anything. The car pulled up and they got in, telling the guy their addresses. Aymeric was dropped off first and John said goodbye to him with a pat on the back, glad to be alone. 

Before long he was home, stepping into the dark hallway and locking the front door with a sigh. He kicked off his shoes and went straight upstairs to bed, tired and tipsy. He decided he wouldn’t say anything to Jordan; he’d let him wallow in his big mistake. John put his phone face down on the bedside table and flicked off the light, and lasted all of thirty seconds before he was grabbing his phone and sending off a text to Jordan: 

JS: well done on the win. See you tomorrow, love you xxx 

And only then could he fall asleep, full of anticipation for Jordan’s return home. 

— 

Airport pick up and drop off areas were always the absolute worst. John was already irritated and snappy before Jordan had even come out, infuriated by the lack of parking space and then, once he’d found one, pissed off that people kept driving too close and swinging their doors open like they were parked in a field. 

On top of that Jordan’s flight was delayed ever so slightly and as a result John had missed the £2 quick stay threshold - the fee was now going up at £5 a minute and he was livid. 

By the time Jordan came wheeling his suitcase out of the automatic doors John was ready to go 16 rounds with Connor McGregor. John was glaring at him out of the window and squeezed the wheel when Jordan stopped for a selfie with a fan. 

An eternity (fifteen seconds) later and Jordan was pulling open the boot, throwing his case in, and making his way to the passenger door. He opened it and climbed inside and instantly John wanted to sit on his lap and relinquish all decisions and maybe go for a nap. Instead he looked at Jordan pointedly and said nothing. 

Jordan’s smile fell. “Hello?” 

“Sixty seven pounds this is going to cost me now!” John snapped, starting the engine. 

Jordan put his seatbelt on calmly. “Why didn’t you go out and come back in again to restart the quick stay minutes?” 

John’s knuckles went white on the steering wheel. “Don’t start being a fucking smart arse. You should’ve got a fucking car service to get you. This is ridiculous. Sixty seven quid, Jordan!” 

“Wow, sorry John, I didn’t realise you weren’t in a position to lose sixty pound,” Jordan snapped back, rifling through his backpack. “I’ll fucking pay it, stop being so fucking mardy will you?” 

“It’s not about the money, it’s the principle. I could’ve donated that to charity or something, rather than sitting here waiting for you to decide to come off the plane.” 

Jordan’s eyes narrowed. “Waiting for me to get off the plane? Right enough, I was sat there twiddling me thumbs. Don’t start talking to me about charity when you’re sat there with a stupid five thousand pound bracelet on your wrist. Donate that to fucking charity.” 

John pulled up at the pay station and Jordan thrust his card at him, undeniably furious. John pushed the card away and pulled out his own, and Jordan gasped in frustration and shoved his own at him again. John took the card and threw it in the back seat, shouting “I don’t want your fucking money!” 

Jordan looked at him like he’d slapped him and took a deep, steadying breath. He unclipped his seat belt and reached into the back of the car for his card, placing it back in his bag. Then he opened the door and said “I’m getting a taxi. Bye.” He slammed the car door shut and left John sitting there, shaking with rage, all alone. 

— 

John drove back to Manchester and then drove for hours aimlessly through the streets, not wanting to go home as angry as he was. He couldn’t explain why he was so infuriated by Jordan, why he was being such a dick head. All he knew was that he wanted a big fight and he was going to have it. 

He headed home when the fuel light came on. The lights were on in the house, so Jordan had at least come back. John parked and steeled himself, deciding he’d confront Jordan about the game last night. He told the voice in his head that was screaming he was a little bastard to shut up and pushed the front door open like some kind of pantomime villain. 

He marched into the house and found Jordan on the sofa eating a yoghurt. He looked up at John and his nostrils flared in annoyance. “Don’t fucking start me,” he growled round a mouthful of muller corner. “Don’t even fucking go there again.” 

“What the fuck were you doing last night? Do you realise you nearly gave the game away?” 

“Are you angry at me because I made a mistake during a fucking nations league group match? Is that what this is?” 

“A Cruyff turn? Really? You’re a goalie,” John said slowly, like Jordan was thick. “G-O-A-L-I-E.” 

Jordan stood up and tried to walk out but John stood in his way. Jordan blinked at him. 

“I’m losing my patience, John.” 

“That what happened last night? Lost your patience in the goal so you went wandering around?” 

“You know what? Do us a favour. Take a cushion off the couch and go and kneel down in the fucking corner over there, will you? You want to act like a disruptive little boy then you’ll be treat like one.” 

John didn’t move immediately, torn between wanting to comply and wanting to tell Jordan to ram it up his arse. He was about to argue again when Jordan shouted “Go on! Now!” 

That familiar twinge of excitement licked down John’s spine, and he stomped over to the couch, picking up his favourite pillow and chucking it in the corner of the living room. With an exaggerated sigh he dropped down onto it, resting his bum on his heels, hands on his thighs. It was at once humiliating and empowering, soothing and terrifying, but most importantly it took from him the question of whether or not he should fight or apologise; took away the power of his emotions to pick at him until he was saying things he didn’t mean; took away the noise and dread and static in his mind and replaced it with one thing: Jordan. 

When would he come back into the room? What would he do to John? What was about to happen? The same thoughts raced over and over. He became aware of the bends in his legs, of how the blood was struggling to circulate with them folded like this. He could only hear the sound of his heart thumping in his ears, could only feel the course denim of his jeans under his finger tips. Thinking about Jordan giving him attention again was making him hard; the thought that he was going to be completely at Jordan’s mercy made him shake with need. Jordan might make him sit there for hours or minutes, John had no way of knowing. If he got up and moved then he’d only be disappointing himself - Jordan would refuse to play with him and he’d go to bed angry and unsatisfied and unhappy. He didn’t know what Jordan was going to give him. He didn’t know where in the house Jordan was. He didn’t know if Jordan would just go to bed and leave him there all night; he certainly deserved it. His brain deteriorated into a loop of the word Jordan again and again and again. 

John’s breathing slowed down and he had to actively remind himself to keep doing it. His brain was starting to feel thick and confused. He didn’t know what time it was or how long he’d been there. He started feeling a bit floaty and dream like, had to keep opening his eyes to remind himself he was still on the floor, still stable. He was semi hard, he knew that, and his lower legs felt like white noise because he’d been leaning on them. He dug his nails into his thighs and tried to remember that it was the carpet, the cushion and him, he was safe, he was solid. He was beginning to forget why he was there in the first place when Jordan spoke from behind him. 

“Come here.” He said it crisply, clearly. 

John put his hands on the carpet either side of him and pushed up, testing his legs. They weren’t asleep but they were singing with pins and needles and he sort of limped over to Jordan, his mouth dry. 

“Are you in pain?” He asked John. He was sat on the couch with his legs crossed, arms folded. He wasn’t smiling. 

John shook his head and swallowed, blinking slowly at Jordan. Truthfully his legs were aching from where his jeans had been digging into him; the pins and needles felt like shit. He could barely think straight and knew if he didn’t get to touch something solid soon he’d cry. 

“Don’t lie to me. Ever. Or we can’t do this.” Jordan said. 

“My - legs. They hurt,” John said carefully, having to take his time over the words. 

“Good boy. Take them off,” Jordan replied, nodding at John’s trousers. 

John swallowed. He looked down at the button and bit his lip, bringing his heavy hands up and tugging at it. It wouldn’t pop open, unable as he was to employ full dexterity over his fingers. He frowned at the button and was about to just rip it open when Jordan sat forward with a sigh. 

“I’ll do it myself, will I?” He grabbed the jeans and opened them with ease, tugging them down over John’s slim hips. Jordan put a hand on his pelvis to steady him whilst he stepped out of the jeans and John’s skin tingled where they touched, his attention going to that one spot. Without thinking he put a hand over Jordan’s wrist and gripped onto him, feeling that if he didn’t he’d float off the face of the earth and be lost in space. 

“Right. Here’s what we’re going to do, okay? I’m going to put you over me knee and I’m going to smack you ten times. I’m going to do it because you’ve been fucking horrible since me flight landed and you know that your actions have consequences. You’re going to count them for me and you’re going to safe word if you have to stop. Alright?” John nodded, and Jordan tutted. “Words, Stones. Need words from you.” 

“Yes, I understand,” John gasped, toes curling. 

Jordan sat on the edge of the couch and planted his feet, inviting John to bend down. It was somewhat awkward - John was not very small - but they managed it expertly. Jordan pulled John’s underpants down over his arse and ran a hand back and forth over his skin. 

John could hardly breathe. He had his head buried in the crook of his own arm and he was almost on the cusp of an anxiety attack wondering when the first hit would come. Then, in a glimmering instant, Jordan’s hand was gone and then it was back, the palm of his hand smacking John’s skin loudly, the shock of it causing John’s breath to hitch and his eyes to widen, the sparks from the contact racing straight to his cock which was sandwiched between his own hip and Jordan’s thigh. 

“One!” He gasped, suddenly feeling very vulnerable and floaty. 

Jordan brought down the next two in rapid succession, on the same place as the first. John felt like a fire had been lit on his backside and he squeaked in surprise. “Three, four,” he said, unable to stop himself from pressing his hips down against Jordan’s big thigh. 

“Stop humping us,” Jordan scolded him, and John held still. 

Five and six swapped to the other cheek and John felt himself coming undone. There were tears brimming in his eyes and he was so hard and he didn’t know what to do with himself, whether to push back or down or hold still or get off, wasn’t sure where he was or what day it was or what the time was but just certain that he’d been terrible and he needed Jordan to take care of him and that was exactly what he was getting. 

Smacks seven and eight were back on the original cheek and it made John cry because it was too much, too many sensations for him after sitting on his knees for such a long length of time, too humiliating and degrading but also too perfect, too sexy, too much for him to process. He was crying because he was so hard and he wasn’t allowed to do anything about it and he didn’t want to let anyone down but he was sure he was going to come in his pants. He was crying because he didn’t know where all this had come from - Jordan was the one who messed up during the Spain game, not John - but John was the one who was so hung up on it. 

Jordan alternated the final two hits across both of John’s cheeks and John somehow managed to say nine, ten out loud and Jordan was praising him and saying “Go on then, come if you need to, good lad,” and John only needed to chase it for a second before he was making a big old mess of his boxers. 

The next thing John was aware of was being cradled to Jordan’s chest like a baby and rubbed and soothed and cuddled and an intense feeling of guilt as he realised that he was the one who had been a dick, yet here he was, being looked after. 

“I’m sorry, Jord,” he croaked, his eyelashes thick with tears. “I’m sorry for being a dick.” 

“It’s okay, it’s fine - you can ask me though, John, you can ask for what you need, okay. You don’t need to try and push me into a fight.” 

“I didn’t know I needed it,” mumbled John, nose in Jordan’s jumper. “Didn’t know why I was doing that, really.” 

“Next time you get booked, stay with me, will you? You’re a nightmare when you’ve been left alone,” Jordan said, rubbing the pad of John’s ear back and forward. 

“Yeah, yeah,” John sniffled, breathing a deep breath in and out. “Thank you. For that.” 

“It’s alright. Do you want to go and shower?” 

John nodded, then sat up and kissed Jordan. “Welcome home,” he said against Jordan’s lips. “Well done on those assists. Don’t wander out of the box. I love you,” he said between kisses, knowing Jordan knew that this is what he had wanted to say earlier in the airport car park but couldn’t. “Let’s go and have a shower now.” 

John stood up carefully, wincing at the mess in his pants. Jordan followed and they made their way to the stairs, John wondering what he could do to get Jordan off that wouldn’t involve being on his knees again. Jordan paused at the foot of the stairs. 

“Oh, by the way? I know you’re really skint, but the taxi cost me £124. Is there any way you could pay us back before Christmas?” 

“Fuck off, Jord,” John said over his shoulder, smiling despite himself. “Cheeky fucker.”

**Author's Note:**

> belle-laid.tumblr.com


End file.
